


The Beauty of a Flower

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingerfucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is divorced. Molly has a thing for detectives. Inevitably, it ends in sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beauty of a Flower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shrillfangirlscreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shrillfangirlscreaming).



> This is the other part of a gift to shrillfangirlscreaming (Fofi). She won (or rather gave a spectacular answer) to a contest on my Tumblr, and this was her original request. Though we eventually decided to do a Johnlock smut trade, I felt she still deserved her Greg x Molly fic. Apparently it's hard to find?
> 
> Sort of a warning, though only sort of: I used the word "cunt" 3 times. I didn't use it as an insult or anything. It's one of my favourite words, to be honest. So, there is no negative connotation intended. I seriously tried to use another word, but nothing else fit the tone. Apparently, Greg's POV is something akin to noir in my head... which makes it a bit grittier than I would normally write. Who knew?

“Love is beauty and beauty is truth, and that is why in the beauty of a flower we can see the truth of the universe.”

**~Gautama Buddha~**

**********

Her skin was soft, especially against his rough, calloused hands. It had been a while since he’d touched a woman, touched anyone… except himself. The divorce was finalized weeks prior, but to say he had trust issues was the understatement of the year. Luckily, Molly didn't strike him as the ‘cheating whore’ type. His wife… no, _ex-_ wife… his ex-wife hadn't either, but he’d always appreciated her wilder side. Somehow, that sort of thing that once made him rock hard now just made his chest ache. So, Molly… Molly was sweet and pretty and… well… _safe_.

He’d intended to be a gentleman, he really had. He swore they wouldn't end up back at his place, in his bed. And they didn't. The bed was decidedly hers. Mission accomplished… sort of. It wasn't his fault, though. He hadn't asked her to wear the dress from the Christmas party. She chose to put it on; she chose to invite him up for a nightcap; he chose only to ignore the drink and focus on getting the blasted dress back off of her. It was surprisingly easy. Maybe there was more to Molly than he gave her credit. Maybe she just liked his chat up: I know you've got a thing for detectives, and… well… here we are. No, not likely. Perhaps she just liked a good shag as much as the next person. He didn't want that thought to be sexy, but it was… Dammit! It really, _really_ was.

Her lips on his, sweet and soft, were a welcomed reminder of everything he thought a woman was meant to be. The slight tilt of her head to grant him access to her ear and neck were endearing. It was clear that most of her experiences in the bedroom had been with men who needed some guidance. Men? Hmm… People? He didn't aim to know whom she entertained in her bedroom, not beyond the time he was being allotted within its confines at least. It wasn't such a terrible thought that maybe they weren't all men, though. He stiffened a bit more at the mental image.

The thin straps slid off of her pale shoulders with such ease.  The zipper down her back gave little resistance. As the black fabric slipped down her body, it revealed a beautiful canvas, all milky white with only touches of pink. She possessed all the beauty of a flower, petals spread wide on a backdrop of green satin sheets. And, in that moment, she was as filthy as she was innocent, and she was his for the taking.

His 5 o’clock shadow painted pale pink lines of subtle abrasion across her skin, and there was something empowering about her allowing him to mark her in such a way. Even when the marks no longer remained, he would always see them on her and know some part of her had been his, even if only briefly. And it was somehow enough.

Her breasts were warm and pliable in his hands, the pert pink points of her nipples beckoning him to taste. He rolled one between his thumb and forefinger absently while the other was quickly ensconced by his mouth. When his tongue circled it, his cheeks hollowing as he gently sucked, she moaned and squirmed under him. It was hard to focus on her body when he could barely take his eyes off of her face, her head thrown back and her lower lip held firm between her teeth. Her spine arched up, pressing her soft, supple flesh harder against his lips.

Wet, open-mouthed kisses down her torso left a gloss of saliva in their wake, and her skin pimpled when the cool air hit it. His tongue dipped into her navel, and he could already smell the sweet intoxication of femininity. His hands smoothed along her body, wishing to leave no flesh untouched. He kissed her inner thigh, his stubble pricking at her sensitive skin, when delicate hands with passionately red nails fisted into his hair. She tugged, not out of protest, and the purity once seen behind her eyes was suddenly gone.

He pressed a kiss to the perfect set of lips between her thighs and teased at her slit with the point of his tongue. She wriggled around him, and he couldn't help but pause to grin. When he went back, teasing became tasting. He opened her with the same pointed tongue and slid it the length of her and back. As he reached the top, he glanced across her clit, circling and sucking at it. Her tightened grip on his hair, accompanied by many a licentious sound, suggested he hadn't lost his touch.

Pulling away briefly, he bit at her inner thigh and worked two fingers into her. They pistoned in and out of her, slowly at first but then faster, at the behest of her rolling hips. Moving back in, his tongue fluttered over the raised bundle of nerves, and he could feel her clench tighter around his fingers. His cadence spelled out S.O.S. in Morse code, an old trick he’d learned back in Uni that he was certain she wouldn't notice. It'd never failed him in the past, and as her body quaked around him, it was clear it still hadn't. She came hard against his hand and face, his name shattering in her mouth so that only small shards of it escaped. Even so, the auditory praise fell on mostly deaf ears, his hearing substantially obscured by the thighs clamped tightly against them. He rode out her climax, savouring the taste of success until she settled and stilled.

He stood. An unbuttoned shirt hung from his shoulders, the vest beneath clinging to his chest and abdomen. He stepped out of his boxers, exposing his cock… erect, aching, and intensely envious of his hand. She licked her lips, silently begging, and the choice was his: mouth or cunt. Her mouth was too risky. It had been a while, and his cock would never forgive him if he denied it the privilege his fingers already knew. Cunt, then.

Latex sheath in place, the blunt tip of his prick tracked up and down her slit, pressure building with each pass until her lips parted to grant him access. He slipped inside with a groan, his entire world swallowed up by the hot, wet tightness surrounding his cock. His thrusts came slowly at first, and he’d never been so happy to have his senses damped by a condom. With even the slightest bit more sensation, he’d already have blown his load. Not that he was certain either of them would have been terrible put out by it. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, her pelvis jerking up to meet his, it was settled. _She_ would set the pace.

He held her firmly in place and rolled onto his back. She put up no resistance and grinned down at him with quiet approval. Her fingers threaded into her own locks as her body rolled atop his, her hips bucking as she rode him. She ground hard against his cock, drawing leisurely circles with her pelvis. The curve of her spine accentuated her breasts, and her abdominal muscles rippled under her skin. No matter how desperately his hands wished to explore, they always came to rest at her hips again.

Looking on, she didn't need him anyway. Her hands now groped her own breasts, her nipples clamped between each index and middle finger. Then her left hand moved across her chest, to her throat, and finally disappeared behind her head. The right trailed down her torso and groin until her fingers splayed at the base of his cock, already buried to its hilt between her legs. She moved up, parting her lips a bit wider to take advantage of every millimeter of penetration he could offer, and began massaging her clit with a slow, deliberate motion.

Removing her fingers, yet unsated, she worked them into his mouth. He sucked hard as she extracted them and went back to work on herself. She shuddered under her own touch, and where his cock was once jealous of his own fingers, his tongue was now jealous of hers. She writhed against her own fingertips, his prick becoming nothing more than a helpless though willing prop in her one-woman show. As her movements devolved into chaotic beauty, she came apart once again while he delighted in the contractions of cunt around cock. Her timid squeaks turned to screams, and he then understood the glorious plight over every bucking bronco that had ever been mounted by a skilled rider.

When she was through, her smile told him he was being given permission to fulfill the overwhelming desire that had plagued him since the moment her dress hit the floor. He gripped her hips and pushed hard up into her time and time again, eliciting a menagerie of quiet, encouraging moans to escape from her throat. His nerve endings were aflame with each thrust, and he barely lasted through half a dozen more strokes. In an instant, his vision blurred to black and then burst to bright white, his cock twitching and pulsing inside her. She let slip a satisfied sigh as she bobbed a few final times on his spent prick, seemingly drawing out the last bits of pleasure before it withered and died beneath her, and her sentiment perfectly echoed his own.

She collapsed beside him and giggled, almost as if she’d only just remembered who she was and what she’d done. Not Greg, though. He’d remained acutely aware of everything from start to finish. As they curled up to sleep, he let his wind wander. He hadn't a clue what might happen in the morning’s light, but he was certain he’d never look at Molly Hooper the same way again.

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: I kept picturing Molly as Scarlett Johansson. I can't explain this at all, and I didn't want to taint your read-through with putting it at the beginning... but yeah. I just kept turning Louise Brealey in ScarJo! XD
> 
> Apologies if it was awful... I don't write het porn, and I don't sail this ship. Those aren't meant to excuse shit writing, but they are possible reasons if you find it lacking.
> 
> Not beta'd... It's fucking 7am, and I've not slept yet. If there are mistakes... well.... I'd be surprised if there fucking weren't! OMG... I get lewd when I'm tired. Sorry for all the "fuck this" and "fuck that" going on here. <3
> 
> Considering a Mystrade companion piece to this. If you're into Mystrade AND you liked the writing style in this piece, keep an eye out for "The Delicacy of Fine China."


End file.
